Sherlock Cuckolds Himself
by wendymarlowe
Summary: "What are we doing here?" John finally asked, admitting defeat. "I didn't even know we had a case on." "We don't," Sherlock admitted from his perch beside him. "You needed sex, so we came to get you some." (AKA Sherlock Picks Up A Hot Date For John, Then Replicates The Evening Himself)
1. Chapter 1

The club was unbearably hot and the music was several decibels too loud for John's tastes. He leaned back against the bar, sipping his beer, and tried to figure out what Sherlock was looking for.

"What are we doing here?" he finally asked, admitting defeat. "I didn't even know we had a case on."

"We don't," Sherlock admitted from his perch beside him. "You needed sex, so we came to get you some."

John nearly dropped his bottle.

"You haven't had a partner for almost three months," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's reaction, "and it's starting to impact your efficiency on cases. Would you prefer a woman or a man?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock," John groaned. "I can take it from everyone else, but surely _you _have noticed that I only date women."

"You're less picky about one-night stands," Sherlock replied. "You've had two of them with men in the past decade. I only wanted to ensure I picked out the best possible partner."

"I . . ." John raked his hand through his hair, then gave up and chugged most of the rest of his beer._ Fuck it_. "I'm not going to even ask how you found that out. It's really none of your business."

"A woman, then. Give me a minute - stay right there." Sherlock slipped off his stool and took off, slipping easily through the crowd.

John didn't have much of a bloody choice, given the press of bodies filling the club, so he slid into Sherlock's recently-vacated seat and polished off his drink. Sherlock had done stranger things. Not _much _stranger, mind - Sherlock as wingman was definitely up there - but at least they weren't in a _young _club. There were a fair sprinkling of gray and salt-and-pepper heads out on the dance floor, and the average age seemed to be mid-thirties to early forties. John didn't think he would have survived the excursion if they'd gone to a club full of twenty-somethings.

And it _had _been a while since his last actual date - well, his last date involving sex. All his more recent attempts seemed to end in either tears or yelling - and that's when he even got as far as the dates in the first place. Half the likely prospects were put off by John's frequent need to postpone plans every time Sherlock found a disembodied head in a hotel bathtub. Maybe this was Sherlock's (completely socially tone-deaf) way of making it up to him?

Sherlock was back less than five minutes later, now with a woman in tow. She was tall and dark, about John's own age, with close-cropped hair and four-inch heels which put her almost at an equal height with Sherlock. Just the right amount of makeup to telegraph "on the prowl" without tipping over into too much, and a predatory gaze which was locked very squarely on John.

"Yolanda, this is John. John, Yolanda." Sherlock took a step back, leaving them face-to-face. "See, I told you he was good-looking."

"You were right," she murmured. And extended her hand with a confident smile. "Hi, John. Nice to meet you."

John shook it, feeling very much out of his depth. "Hi. Sorry about him - he didn't really tell me he was planning to do this tonight. I, um. Can I buy you a drink?"

She cocked her head to the side and studied him for a long moment. "Let's see . . . late thirties, decent education, not married . . . ex-military, maybe? You have very good posture."

John turned to stare at his flatmate. "Sherlock, did you-"

"You're _that _John?" Yolanda asked, her eyes widening. "Oh, that makes so much sense! I thought you looked familiar - I saw you in the papers. So your partner here must be Sherlock Holmes. No wonder he was able to read me so easily. I'm honored, actually." She twisted around to grin at Sherlock over her shoulder. "You're a bloody incorrigible cheat, you know that? There's no fucking way I'd be able to guess more about John that you guessed about me. Not really a fair challenge."

"You did surprisingly well," Sherlock replied with an expression that rivalled his I-just-solved-the-case grin. "Got nothing wrong, at any rate."

"So you're together, then?" she asked. "I mean, when you told me to come meet your friend, I assumed . . ."

"It's not like that," John said through gritted teeth.

"Not like you think," Sherlock amended. And slipped closer to slide his arm around John's shoulders. "I'm gay, he's bi. And I find it bloody hot when he cheats on me."

John's jaw dropped. "Sherlock-"

"I think I see," Yolanda said with interest. "You choose someone to help him scratch that itch, then he tells you all about it and you both get off on it afterwards. Remarkably open-minded of you - my ex would have never managed that."

"From the looks of your dress, your ex couldn't manage much of anything," Sherlock said. "You're on the hunt for someone who is better in bed. And I can vouch that John is very, very good."

John stared at his flatmate. _Please let this be Sherlock playing a role, and not an admission that he's followed me on a date_, he thought to himself. Aloud, he just made a vaguely embarrassed noise.

Yolanda looked him up and down once, then stepped closer so she had him backed up against the bar. John felt a delicious frisson of adrenaline at the sensation - a beautiful woman caging him in from the front, Sherlock's arm an inescapable weight on his shoulders, and the bar pressing against the small of his back to prevent any further retreat. She leaned down (and oh, how John hated that he was so short, even half-sitting on the bar stool) and a moment later he felt a warm puff of breath against his left ear. "Show me, John Watson," she breathed.

They did stop for a long snog outside, wet and messy and aching, but after that they half-walked half-ran to her flat, three blocks away, and John had her out of her dress before they even made it all the way through her door. Sherlock just watched them go from the sidewalk outside the club, an unreadable dark heat in his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was lying on the sofa in the near-dark when John got back. He wasn't asleep. John hung up his coat while Sherlock flicked on the lamp, then they both stared at each other.

"So." John forced a nonchalant shrug. "She was nice."

"You had sex."

"Deduce that all yourself, did you?" _Wasn't that the whole point?_

"Tell me about it."

John flailed for words for a moment. "It was . . . it was _sex_, Sherlock. I mean, thanks for setting me up and all, but-"

"You started with a kiss," Sherlock said, and stood. He pressed forward until he was well inside John's personal space, staring down at him with unreadable eyes. "Outside the club. You grabbed the nape of her neck and tugged her head down and she moaned. Twice. And she reached around to grab your arse when you started to use tongue." He reached his arms around to encircle John's torso, gentle but unyielding, not quite dipping low enough to grope John's bum through his trousers but definitely close enough to suggest he'd be amenable. He paused with his lips only a hairsbreadth away from John's. "You initiated the kiss, I believe."

_Holy shit_. John froze for what felt like forever, untangling things in his brain, but Sherlock waited patiently until John finally gave up fighting _this_, whatever it was. "You weren't lying," he whispered against Sherlock's lips. "Back at the club - you weren't lying."

"No."

And then John told himself _fuck it_ and swarmed forward, tugging Sherlock's mouth down to meet his own, exactly like he'd done with Yolanda. Sherlock moaned - _squeaked_, really - and went all melty and boneless under his fingertips. John let his other hand trail freely up and down Sherlock's long back, firm enough to keep Sherlock pressed tight against him but ready to pull back at the slightest sign he had misread Sherlock's intentions.

He hadn't. Sherlock did finally grab a handful of arse, urging John closer so their bodies were smashed together from lips to thighs. He let out another moan, lower this time, definitely not anything that could have been mistaken for feminine. John didn't fucking care.

Sherlock broke the kiss gradually, already panting. "What next?"

"You want a play-by-play?" John massaged Sherlock's nape between his thumb and forefinger with a shade more pressure than he'd normally use, but Sherlock's eyes practically rolled up and out of his head at the feel of it. John took advantage of his flatmate's helpless gasp to initiate another deep, filthy kiss. With more tongue this time.

"Everything," Sherlock groaned against him when he could finally speak again. "Tell me all of it. I want it all. But better."

"God, I can do that." John pressed against Sherlock, backing him up one step at a time until he hit the closed door. "I need you out of these clothes first, though. I already had her dress on the floor by the time we even got through her doorway."

Sherlock whimpered under the onslaught, but he was already pawing at his shirt. John tugged it loose from his trousers and yanked, divesting it of buttons and Sherlock alike. Trousers followed - it was a good thing Sherlock was already barefoot, because John was damned if he wanted to stop for something as inane as unlacing hundred-pound loafers. Ten seconds later Sherlock was totally naked and John was still totally clothed and John's brain had already shot straight past_ what the fuck am I doing_ and straight into trying to make Sherlock as desperate as possible, as quickly as possible.

"What - _oh!_ - what next?" Sherlock gasped, pinned to the door again as John assaulted his pale neck with insistent, inescapable kisses and little nips.

"You really want to know?" John growled against Sherlock's earlobe, then bit it gently. Sherlock made a fantastic gutteral noise which absolutely could have been the sound of his mental gears grinding messily to a halt.

"Tell me," Sherlock groaned. "Show me. What you did with her. What you did without me there."

"Don't know if I can show you everything, but I'll try to paint the picture." John licked one last stripe up Sherlock's neck, then grabbed the detective's hands and slammed them against the wood of the door over Sherlock's head. "She surprised me - had a nice little box of toys all laid out on her bed when we got to her flat. Good variety. She was obviously not afraid to get a little kinky - did you deduce I'd like that, too?"

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes wide as saucers, and nodded. "Bedroom," he whispered.

"Not exactly how it played out yet, but sure, if you want to." John lowered Sherlock's hands but didn't release his iron grip on his flatmate's wrists. Instead, he twisted them around so they were pinned at the small of Sherlock's back and he could propel him forward with one hand, herding him with his body and crowding his steps so Sherlock was always just a second away from losing his balance. They were both breathing hard, now, but John's brain and body had both settled into that marvelous _focus _he sometimes got when he was in the middle of damn good sex and he was the one getting to direct everything. The more incoherent Sherlock got, the more John's senses sharpened into a single, overarching predatory instinct. It was _glorious_.

He faltered a bit as they cleared the threshold to Sherlock's room and John saw what was on the bed. A line of sex toys and bondage gear, all still in their neat packages from the store, handcuffs and rope and safety shears and a set of velcro restraints in various sizes.

"What the fuck?"

Sherlock squirmed in his grip, not actually trying to get away but definitely not happy about having to explain himself. "I went shopping while you were out," he admitted.

"Because you knew Yolanda was into bondage."

"Because I deduced _you _were into bondage. I picked her out for you with that in mind."

"Jesus." John dragged Sherlock closer to the bed to take a better look at the assortment. "We're going to talk about that more later. Right now, all you need to know is that you guessed right."

Despite his half-blissed-out state, Sherlock still snorted and rolled his eyes. "I never _guess_, John. I always-"

_"Hey."_ John shoved, overbalancing Sherlock onto his stomach on the bed. He landed a well-timed swat at Sherlock's bare arse as it passed. "I'm about to make you come your bloody brains out, so I'd thank you to not argue with me right now."

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied meekly, his face once again a mixture of hope and exquisite desperation. "What next?"

"You got the over-the-door kind. And it damn well was a lucky guess. Hold still." John tore open the plastic packaging and pulled out the velcro straps. They weren't anything fancy, just the kind of starter kit you'd find at any sex shop, but they were frighteningly similar to what Yolanda had in her toybox. John fastened one strap around each of Sherlock's wrists, then went to shut the bedroom door with the plastic T-bars in place over the top. With the door closed, the T-bars provided an anchor point (complete with miniature carabiners on a short nylon straps) for him to hook Sherlock's hands to. Sherlock was tall enough to not even need the extra length of strap, of course, although . . .

"Right." John hauled Sherlock bodily back off the bed and clipped him quickly into place. Sherlock tugged at his wrists, testing the strength of the restraints, but the obvious precome already beading at the head of Sherlock's cock told John all he needed to know about whether his flatmate was enjoying this or not.

"This was next," John said calmly. As if his heart wasn't galloping almost as fast as Sherlock's. "We snogged a bit longer in her sitting room, then I pinned her up against a wall, then we made it to her bedroom and she already had the cuffs attached to the doorframe. She was absolutely gorgeous, there - naked except for her high heels. Kept her a bit wobbly for balance, but I think we can simulate that too." He nabbed one of the pillows from Sherlock's bed and wedged it behind his flatmate's ankles, so Sherlock had to stand a little away from the door and arch backward to keep from tugging on his wrists. It wasn't so much that he was in danger of injuring himself, but it kept him from being able to concentrate on anything else for too long. Especially once John was kneeling on the floor in front of him, mouth even with Sherlock's cock.

_"John."_

"It's good that you're tall for this, you know. Gives me more room to maneuver. Shift your feet farther apart." John nudged Sherlock's calves with his knees, forcing enough space between them to crouch comfortably. Sherlock was all tense muscles and quivering limbs, now, but he wasn't thinking or deducing or insulting anyone and John found himself quite satisfied with the state of things. He took a deep breath to fortify himself, then leaned forward and swallowed Sherlock down to the root.

The _thump _of Sherlock slamming the back of his head against the door was probably loud enough to wake Mrs. Hudson, but John didn't really give a damn. He had Sherlock twitching and writhing above him, in front of him, around him, inside his mouth, and it made him feel like the most powerful man on earth.

"John, oh, I - _ngh!"_ Sherlock was obviously fighting to keep from thrusting his hips, but he had no leverage anyway. John ran a hand up the back of each lean thigh, spearing his fingers through the crinkled hair there, and held him still so he could work him more deliberately with little sucks and licks and teasing flicks of his tongue. It was nice to know that giving blowjobs and riding a bicycle were both skills one never really forgot. Sherlock was trembling in earnest, now, not quite ready to come yet, but probably in danger of falling into a heap on the floor if John were to suddenly release the velcro around his wrists. John moaned around Sherlock's length - prompting another full-body shiver - and sat back on his heels.

"Don't suppose you have condoms and lube around here, do you?"

Sherlock groaned and opened his mouth to pant out loud for a full ten seconds before he could reply. "Top drawer. Both. But John, I already - I wanted to-"

"Really?" John slid one of his hands up higher, tracing the globe of Sherlock's arse, then brought one finger back down along his crack to his perineum. And felt the telltale slickness of Sherlock having already prepared himself.

How had he done it? John closed his eyes for a moment so he could just absorb this new realization. _Sherlock, fingers pistoning in and out of himself. For me. Maybe a dildo, hard and thick? Was he imagining it was me buggering him? Or was he imagining himself writhing and helpless, pinned to the door, prick jammed in my mouth as I reduced him to nothing but moans and tremors?_ He traced over that slick hole again, just pressing in a tiny bit, and Sherlock let out an embarrassed whine.

Right. Condoms. No matter what Sherlock did already, John wasn't going to go without one of those. He stood (a little jerkily, his leg finally registering a protest) and went to retrieve both a condom and the small pump-top bottle of lube. Not a brand John had seen before, but then it was probably something posher than anything he could afford anyway.

"I was," Sherlock said breathlessly, his eyes still blown a bit wide. "Thinking of you while I did it. Just my own fingers, but imagining how you'd feel. And daydreaming about how you were probably fucking that woman that very moment, totally unaware of what I was doing."

"Yeah, well, now I know." John unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out through the slit in his pants. He rolled the condom on with practiced efficiency - no chance of losing his erection now, not with Sherlock naked and stretched out like a sacrifice like that - and slathered a sloppy palmful of lube over the outside. A second pump, and then he was breaching Sherlock with no extra warning. One finger slipped in quickly, easily, and John was desperate to try a second.

"Leg up. Here, brace yourself over my shoulder." John tugged Sherlock's left leg up, letting the crook of Sherlock's knee settle over his collarbone. The position left Sherlock's arse spread and open, ready for John to widen him further. Which he did, with confident strokes, in and out, scissoring his two fingers apart with gentle motions-

"Christ," Sherlock moaned. "John. Need you. Please."

"I thought you wanted to reenact my night with the woman _you _picked out for me."

"Not reenact," Sherlock corrected in a breathy whisper. "Just - want to be better. Want you to think of her and then think of me and know the sex wasn't even in the same league. Wanted to be here, lying on my bed, fingering myself, feeling lonely because you were out fucking someone else, and then have you come home and roger me senseless."

"You're not senseless yet - you're still talking." John hitched Sherlock's leg up higher, then bit the bullet and swept Sherlock's other leg out from under him. It took some adjusting, due to the disparity in their heights, but eventually John had Sherlock's legs draped over both shoulders and Sherlock's back pressed against the door and the tip of his own cock pressed oh-so-gently to the welcoming warmth of Sherlock's hole.

_"Yes,"_ Sherlock breathed, and let his head fall back against the door.

John lined himself up with a nudge of his hips and then he was slipping inside, ever so slowly, careful to watch Sherlock's face for any sign of pain. Sherlock's expression remained utterly blissful, though, a single furrow across his forehead the only sign of discomfort. John pressed in with one smooth, slow stroke, stopping only when he bottomed out with his balls pressed up against Sherlock's arse.

It was indescribable. Brilliant, amazing, fantastic, all the adjectives John had lobbed at Sherlock's mental acrobatics over the course of their time together. All of them now applied to the wonder that was Sherlock, tight and warm and wet around him. John eased Sherlock up again, inch by agonizing inch, then let Sherlock's own body weight slam him home. They both may have shouted.

"Just like this," John bit out, repeating the maneuver. "I had her bent double against the door, totally naked, and I was still almost completely dressed. Just like this. She couldn't move, could barely squirm, just had to-" - he thrust again - "_take it_. Just like you're doing. How's it feel, Sherlock? Is this what you wanted?"

Sherlock rolled his head back and forth against the wood of the door, eyes open but unseeing, breathing heavily. John took his silence for assent.

"You wanted _better_, you know. That's what you said." John leaned forward to bite a sharp mark at the base of Sherlock's collarbone on the next thrust, only barely restraining himself from breaking the skin. "This is _indescribably _better. Because it's you, you mad bastard. Sex with an anonymous woman could never compare with this. Why didn't you ever tell me? You let me think for ages that you were practically asexual."

"You kept saying - not gay," Sherlock gasped.

"That may have been an exaggeration," John admitted. And went after the pale column of Sherlock's neck again, leaving a bruise large enough it was sure to be seen for days. Sherlock moaned and wriggled, but he very definitely seemed to be in favor of both the hickey and the thorough fucking. "You want to come, don't you."

Sherlock nodded frantically.

"Going to make a mess on my shirt."

"Already have."

John looked - and sure enough, there was a noticeable spot of pre-come smeared over his stomach. Sherlock looked so wrecked, so desperate . . . John let go of Sherlock's arse with one hand just long enough to untuck the rest of his shirt from his trousers and to flip the lower hem over his flatmate's erection. "Do it this way, then. Up against my skin, so I can feel it. You're doing the laundry next, anyway."

"Anything. Please." Sherlock tugged against the restraints again - they weren't bearing any of his weight, other than that of his arms, but the reminder that they were there seemed to bring him right to the brink. Not that John was far behind-

"Damn it, _now_." John slammed into Sherlock one more time, feeling Sherlock quake around him, and then Sherlock was going completely rigid and moaning loudly and John's cock was being deliciously squeezed by every single one of the aftershocks.

_"John."_

And that plea was what did it. John's orgasm hit him, too. His legs barely supported him well enough to keep holding Sherlock's weight as he came, but he fought through it and came back to himself with his top half slumped against Sherlock's chest and his lower half still bracing his flatmate against the door. After a long second for his brain to start working again, he carefully pulled out and extricated Sherlock's legs from over his shoulders and helped Sherlock to stand again.

"Um," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah." John reached up to release the restraints around Sherlock's wrists, then slipped the condom off and padded to the wastebasket to dispose of it. His legs were still rubber. When he turned back around, Sherlock had swept the entire collection of sex shop purchases off onto the floor and had flopped face-first onto his duvet.

"C'm'ere," Sherlock slurred.

Lying down seemed like a marvelous idea. John hesitated only a moment, then stripped off his ruined shirt and lowered himself onto the bed next to his flatmate.

"Good?" Sherlock still seemed incapable of more complex conversation, but his tone conveyed everything his words didn't.

And John found himself perfectly happy with that. "Very good," he mumbled, and tugged Sherlock into a not-quite-embrace. "Sleep now; talk later."

"Mmgh." Sherlock flailed out to the side, grabbed the edge of the duvet, and flipped it over them both so they were rolled like a burrito. And they both drifted off to sleep.


End file.
